


The Man That Is Not There

by SisterSunny



Series: Unafilliated [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Horror, One Shot, Paranoia, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:26:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27556831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SisterSunny/pseuds/SisterSunny
Summary: My browsing history recounts a tale of deepening panic.‘There’s a man in my periphery who disappears when I lose sight of him’‘Pareidolia’‘schizophrenia’‘visual hallucinations’‘complex visual hallucinations’
Series: Unafilliated [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1753300
Kudos: 2





	The Man That Is Not There

**Author's Note:**

> Made this for a school project lol, thought it was cool

There’s a man in the pub.

But he- he’s not  _ normal _ .

I  need you to understand: he isn’t, by  _ any _ stretch of the imagination.

To begin with, he’s always here. He never enters and never leaves. It’s not as if he simply does so earlier and later than me, I can tell.  Even if I couldn’t , he’s always wearing the same clothes.

Blue jeans. White t-shirt.

If he  _ does _ have a wardrobe, it’s made up entirely of those two apparels.

He doesn’t  _ look _ homeless; he’s well-kept and clean, even though I’ve never seen him close-up. 

I can sort of  _ sense _ \- no, that sounds odd. I can pretty accurately  _ guess _ what he looks like.

Short, cropped black hair and blue eyes. Skin the colour of a beige wallpaper and a lean stature of moderate height.

I can’t tell you when he started being here. I just— _ realised _ he was, a few days ago. He hasn’t left since.

I  need to talk to him. I’ve put it off too long.

I need  _ answers _ .

Why are you always here? Why can’t anyone  else seem to notice you? And why do I always have the sense  that  you’re  _ watching me? _

A roar bursts through the pub, and my attention flashes to the TV. 

I glance back to my glass. It’s empty.

Why am I still here if I’ve finished?

I get up and pay the tab.

The  bar's never this empty.

There have been times,  closer to morning than evening, when  it’ d been sparse.

But never  _ empty. _

Never empty, except for today, and except for  _ one _ .

One man, in blue jeans and a white t-shirt with black hair and blue eyes.

It’s seven thirty. Everyone and their  _ cousins'  _ _ newborns _ should be crammed into this  establishment . But not today — not after yesterday.

What’s changed?

It’s got to have something to do with him. I know it does.  It’s  _ his _ fault,  even if I  have no idea how  it is.

Did everyone else just decide not to come? Yeah, right.  He’s  gonna answer my questions or he’ll find himself with a black eye when he wakes up tomorrow.

… Does he even sleep?

That’s a ridiculous question.  Of course he sleeps.

I stand up ,  gathering courage that isn’t really there and setting my eyes on him. He’s just  _ sitting there, _ like he’s oblivious to the only other person in the room. He’s just sitting there, with his hands calmly  interlocked on the wooden table, eyes set on the empty air before him , chest rising and falling but not really  _ breathing _ .

My lips twist into a grimace.

And I throw myself into a stride.

“Hey!” I shout as I near his position. “Who the hell are  you?”

He looks up , an infinitesimal smile spreading across his face. He doesn’t reply. Instead, he seems to inspect me, gaze raking up my body from my shoes to my hair. It makes me shiver.

“You mute?” I snarl, taking a threatening step closer.

He isn’t affected. 

The man rises, walking towards the bathroom with a gait that spoke very little of any kind of concern.

I rush after him, but he rounds the corner  before me  and  when I follow a moment later there’s no one there.

A curse is on the tip of my tongue, and then it dissolves.

What?

I walk back towards my table in a daze. The noise of the crowd scratches against my consciousness, although I  do n’t  know why.

Nothing makes sense, but everything’s as it should be.

My  hand rests lightly on the mouse , unmoving . I  didn’t sleep well.  It’s only twelve ,  but I’ve already had three separate co-workers tell me I look hungover.

I did n’t  even  dr i nk, last night. I simply  hadn’t felt up to it.

I stare at the monitor , unseeing. It’s bothering me that I’m bothered,  since I don’t know  _ why _ I’m bothered. My desk is a cluttered mess in which a notepad, a box of pens, a lamp, a keyboard, a  screen, a cup of cold coffee,  and a handful of post-it-notes vie for my attention. 

Of course,  _ none _ of them have my focus, because it’s too busy being occupied by the nagging sense of something being off , because there are just  _ gaps _ in  my memor y that for all intents and purposes  _ should not be there- _

The man ’s here.

My head snaps to the side, eyes wide as  he comes into foc us.  He’s here , standing a distance away .

_ He’s _ the gaps in my memory.

I scramble for a pen, pushing  the keyboard off my desk  and scribbling a line onto my notebook.

And I blink.

And he’ s gone.

I glance at where my pen rests against the paper. On it is written something in crude, sloppy handwriting that takes me a moment to decode.

‘ The man  watches’ .

My browsing history recounts a tale of deepening panic .

‘There’s a man in my periphery  who disappears when I lose sight of him’

‘P areidolia’

‘schizophrenia’

‘visual hallucinations’

‘complex visual hallucinations’

Nothing's making sense.  Schizophrenia is primarily passed through genes , and  my family  was never afflicted. It  _ definitely _ is n’t pareidolia ; I had a one-sided conversation with him — and although  my sleep schedule ha s decidedly deteriorated in the past three days,  it was  _ fine _ when this’d all started.

So  _ why? _

I sigh, deciding that  a restful night  would be  do me better than one of  sleep-deprived  theorising. I turn off the computer, then the monitor, then  in the corner of my eye I see  _ him _ .

Watching me, from my neighbour’s window.

Then he’s gone.

I  hadn’t blinked. I hadn’t looked away.

And he’s gone.

I rush over to my blinds , yanking them down without bothering  with the chain.

I don’t get a restful night.

My neighbour is  visibly worried about  m y appear a nc e . 

The days without rest are building up, and  the dark bags under my eyes can attest to that. I ’d felt safer sleeping  fully clothed, and I  didn't bother changing before I came over. From my shoes to my hair, I probably look every part the mess that I  am . I don’t particularly care.

“Yes? Can I help you?” She asks. Behind her shoulder, there’s a window that looks into my bedroom.

“ D o you live alone?”

She  stared. “Yes.”

“Did you have any visitors last night?”

“No?” She begins to fidget. “Should I  be worried ?”

I think on it for a moment. “No,” I decide. “It’s not you he’s after.”

“I… I see.” S he follows my gaze behind her, glancing at the living room. “Was there anything else…?”

“No,” I choke out,  voice shaky and eyes blown wide . “That was all.”

I bolt, sprinting  down the corridor and taking the two lefts. I fumble with my keys, throw open my door, and  rush to my bedroom. 

It’s empty.

Of course it is.

Why wouldn’t it be.

I shudder, glancing around once more to make sure he isn’t here. Opposite my window,  my neighbour  makes herself a pot of coffee, but she’s alone in the room .

Of course she is.

Why wouldn’t she be.

Daily life  becomes unrecognisable.

I can’t tell anymore, where one day ends and the other begins. It’s  the motion blur of a camera moving too quickly ; the whir of smudged colours — copy and pasted  into each lapsing day .

My eyelids droop, but  the eyes  peaking from beneath them  dart across  my surroundings, scanning them again and again and again for the man, wondering why  I d o it when seeing him was the last thing  I wanted.

Because each time  I d o , he ’s just slightly closer.

It wa s unnoticeable , near the start . But  it’s a pattern  I’ve begun to recognise. At first,  h e wa s far away; on the other end of the room, or on the  op posite side of the street.

At first.

My life is breaking down. I can’t focus on anything, and it’s becoming harder and harder to conceal it , and t he feeling of being watched just won’t  _ go away _ _ - _

He’s  on the other end of the corridor.

I jolt,  and  my heart pumps ice through my veins.

And h e’s gone.

I glance at where coffee stains the carpet, then to the cup in my trembling hands.

How long was I standing here?

“ Hey ,” A colleague begins with . “We’re friends. You can tell me.”

“Tell you what? ” I  intone . “ There’s nothing to tell. And even if there was, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“You just contradicted yourself .”

I was  already  shaking with anxious energy—not that it’d become a rare sight, now— and this conversation wasn’t helping.

“And when I tell you something you’ll brush  off, how will that help  either of us?”

“I won’t brush you off.” He lies.

Li ar .

You’re not the only one.

“ …Someone’s following me,” I acquiesce, finally. “I don’t know why.”

He pales. “What? Jesus, call the  _ police, _ don’t -“

“ I’m not sure if they’ll be any help.”

“What?”

“He isn’t real.”

“What?”

“He can’t be.”

The co -worker bites off the beginning of a question. “I- you’re not making any sense.”

“I’m not?” I smile mirthlessly.

“Not in the slightest.”

“What if I tell you that he’s getting closer? ”

Silence.

“What if I tell you that I only see him  in the corner of my vision? That he’s never far enough away for me to be safe—hell, sometimes, he’s in the same  _ room. _ But he never approaches me by foot.  It’s always when I can’t see him. Which is ironic,  since he’s _ always watching me.” _

“Are you… okay?” He hazards.

“Not particularly. I’m not sure if any of this is real.”

“What do you- what do you  _ mean? _ _ I’m _ real.”

“Are you? How can you prove that? What is it that old Greek  philosopher said? ‘I think, therefor I am’? How can I know, beyond a doubt, that  _ you _ think?”

“… I never expected  to have to prove my corporeality.”

“I never expected to have to question my sanity.”

He doesn’t reply.

I feel the prickle of eyes watching me, but  my colleague’s yet to look up from the ground.

I  try to force my eyes not to look. I try to twist my neck away from where I know  _ he _ is.

I can’t.

And he’s not there, not anymore.

But he’s closer.

My  palms are  tight  around  the camera ’s grips , index  resting on the  shutter button.

No one believes me , and I don’t blame them.  _ I _ don’t believe me.

And that’s why I have this camera. It’ll prove to me that I’m not hallucinating. That I’m not  _ going insane, _ despite every thing .

I’ve only got one photo on it. I t’s a b lurry smudge of a waiting room,  taken from one of the chairs against the wall.

I was too late. I’d lined up the shot-  but as he’s wont to do, he disappeared.

And  thus in the picture, the  floor two metre s away is  empty .

And there’s no one watching me.

It’s too  far for him to reach me. It’s  _ too far. _ He can’t  raise his arm, always limp at his side, and stretch it that kind of distance to my shoulder , tendons snapping and  bones cracking as the limb reaches out and out .

And he can’t touch me.

But it won’t be long until he can.

I take a sip  from my mug . It chills me to my bones.

My co-workers had staged an intervention of sorts, next to the coffee machine. It was all concerned frowns and ‘are  you okay’s, and  none of it  _ helped. _ I’m still  not safe . I’m still  _ terrified _ .

I brushed them off, and none of them had the  will to try and stop me as I walked back to my desk. Who do they think I’ve become, now? A drug  addict ? An alcoholic?

I wish  I was. That’d be so much simpler. I could go to  therapy, and  I could believe my senses.

I freeze.

He’s  in the next seat over.

It takes more willpower than I can afford to keep my sight focussed on  the meaningless words  before me . My hands shake as I rotate the camera left, and squeeze  my index .

The shutter noise almost makes me drop it.

My knuckles are white as I bring  the screen up for inspection. It displays the second photo in my gallery.

There’s an  unoccupied chair beside me .

I can’t focus.

I’m in my room and t he lights are on.  It’s hot; sweat runs down my brow—but it’s freezing cold, too, and I can’t stop shivering.

My computer  shows me  search results of medication that I can’t afford, curing symptoms that I don’t have,  with delays I don’t have  time left for.

Words blur together. Vowels become consonants and diphthongs form sentences. I can’t tell apart most letters, and  the words they form make no sense.

The bags under my eyes have grown. I need to sleep.

I'm tired.

I’m so tired.

I’m so…  _ scared. _

I turn off my monitor . In  its darkness,  it reflects  the light shining from behind me.

And  it reflects a silhouette standing  behind me, too.

I scramble away from my desk,  breaths shallow and heaving as I stand in the centre of my room . My eyes dart to the window ; the void beyond it is unwelcoming.

My room is empty.

He’s gone. He’ll be back . He was too close.

He’ll be back.

And when he returns, I won’t be safe.

Tears—of exhaustion, of terror, of finality—prick at my eyes and spill over without a noise. 

I push myself up, stumbling to the door.

My hand rests on the handle.

There’s nowhere I can run.

One hand still on the  door , the other reaches out for the light switch.

And my room plunges into darkness.

If I can’t see him, he can’t  get closer.

I’m safe.

I’m safe.

I’m okay.

... I’m not alone in this room.

“ _ Please _ ,” I whisper, breaths heaving in and out of my chest, bursting my lungs and  sending cracks through my wildly beating heart. “ _ Stop _ .”

“What do you want? What do you  _ want!? _ Do you just want me to die? Do you even have the capacity for higher thought, or are you just—what- what  _ are _ you? And  _ why _ won’t you stop  _ watching me?” _

Silence.

I crumple to the floor,  shutting my eyes against the world as I hug my knees against my chest.

_ “Stop. _ Don’t touch me.”

No response.

“Why  _ me? _ Why  _ me, _ of all people? Why can  _ I _ see you, when  _ no one _ else can? Why do you want me to seem crazy? Or is it that simple? Am I ranting to an empty room in a mental hospital, raving at the wall as people watch in pity? Are you just—just  _ me? _ Some part of my mind that couldn’t handle it all, and one day suddenly  _ changed? _ Is that why I’m the one you want?”

If death  is a noise, it ’s deafening him.

“I’m sorry.” I whimper.

“I’m sorry,  to all the people who hate me, to all the people who love me . I don’t want to die.”

“I don’t -“

I choke.

In my peripheral vision, a hand reaches for my shoulder . It doesn’t disappear as I focus on it.

I can’t breathe.

I shut my eyes.

Nothing flashes before them. There’s only darkness. There’s only silence. There’s only bitter, terrible cold.

And then there’s the warmth of a palm on  my shoulder, and  my eyes fly open.

And then there’s a voice:

“Hello.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ending Up For Interpretation


End file.
